Sleep Deprivation For The Win

I’m sick of my eyes burning. I’m sick of the daytime. I am sick of my legs feeling like lead. I’m sick of my body confusing tiredness with hunger. I’m sick of feeling full. I’m sick of that advert on the radio.

I’m sick of the taste of energy drink. No I’m not; I’m just sick of being so thirsty that I chug half a litre as if it were a pint of water, knowing full well that I will still have the taste of it stuck on my tongue at midnight. I’m sick of the sound of babies screaming; especially when it’s done right in to my ear.

I’m sick of putting my head down on the pillow only to have to lift it back up less than a minute later. I’m sick of picking my phone up at 5am knowing I’ll be needed shortly, and then not being needed, and missing out on much-needed sleep as a consequence. I’m sick of everything on Facebook.

I’m sick of that song running through my head. And that one. I’m sick of mistaking a baby’s smile for happiness, only to be shat or vomited on moments later. I’m sick of vomit on all of my clothes.

I’m sick of the radio still not playing my requests. I’m sick of the dictionary on this fucking phone: I never meant to type “thst”. I’m sick of visitors to this house, and their inability to follow our rules.

I’m sick of only being a useful member of society between 3:30 and 5am; the point after which I may have had a full REM cycle, and so can mentally function. I’m sick of going back to sleep, only to wake up at a normal waking time, but interrupting a REM cycle, so I feel like I drank a bottle of whiskey the last time I was awake. Only without any of the fun associated with having drunk a bottle of whiskey.

I’m sick of caffeine not working any more, and the dark anxiety of having drunk too much coffee.

I’m sick of people assuming that I have had no part to play in the upbringing of either of my children, simply because I’m their dad. I’m sick of the baby carrier not being easy enough to adjust, so I end up not getting to carry my child anywhere, without days spent trying to readjust it for her mother.

I’m sick of being angry; I’m sick of being sad; I’m sick of wanting people to piss me off in a minor way, just so that I can scream at them. I’m sick of relatives running away with my children, yet again.

I’m sick of the school run. I’m sick of trying to have a cheeky nap, only to have it interrupted by real life, and the responsibilities that come with it. That and a child fucking screaming at me to ‘wake up’.

I’m sick of childless bastards laughing in my face when I mention that I’m tired, and that I would love to sleep for the next decade. I’m sick of patronising bastards making me feel inadequate as a parent; I’m sick of their stupid fucking questions and their moronic insistence that they can “help”.

I’m sick of people who should know better trying to programme my children: I’m sick of the fact that they think their input is more important than that of a child’s parents; I’m sick of my children being fed junk; I’m sick of my children being shown adverts; I’m sick of being lied to, to my fucking face.

I’m sick of being so tired that I can’t concentrate on whatever it is that I’m reading. I’m sick of people not understanding my slurred speech, and having to repeat myself ad nauseum. It’s why I prefer to write. I’m sick of this fucking keypad; writing down a simple thought becomes a herculean task.

I’m sick of people assuming that I’ll hate the gift they’re about to give my child, while laughing in my face. Since when is that a positive way to treat a member of your own family? I’m sick of people assuming I hate Disney: I only take issue when it is the default option; if it’s a free choice, I’m fine.

I’m sick of people getting my children up a height, only for me to have to calm them back down once they’re gone; it’s as if they’ve forgotten that children need to sleep at some point in the day. I’m sick of people making and breaking promises to my children, leaving their parents to pick up the pieces.

I’m sick of the format of this post and the corner I seem to have painted myself in to. I’m sick of you.

I’m sick of being interrupted. I’m sick of the sound of my own voice. I’m sick of no one understanding what I am talking about. I’m sick of my own opinions. I’m sick of the uncertainty of never knowing.

I’m sick of the sunshine; I’m sick of the darkness; I’m sick of the half-light and the gloom. I’m sick of all of the music I am currently listening to, and all of the music I have ever owned. I am still sick of the radio not playing my requests. I am sick of spending money on new music; it’s like a compulsion.

I’m sick of the behaviour of others: if you want to do something, just say it out loud and do it; don’t make up some frilly nonsense in order to grease the wheels. I’m sick of being ignored by all of you.

I’m sick of never being able to get a stupidly fancy cup of coffee. I’m sick of not being able to get all of the foods I see other cultures enjoying. I’m sick of being so focussed on relentless consumption.

I’m sick of being awake, of being tired, of never being able to rest, and knowing it will not just stop.

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